Drunk
by Heather Giesbrecht
Summary: He had never seen Thomas this drunk before, but he knew that Lucille wasn't going to like Thomas's 'sneaking out' and 'straying' from her sight. Good God, the woman should've been Thomas's mother, not his sister. Alan/Thomas, Thomas/Lucille. Complete.


**Drunk**

Warm light and a cacophony of sound greeted Alan as he returned to The Twin Swans Pub on the 1st of March, 1900. His heart was in his throat, wondering if Lucille would've let Thomas out of the hotel. Good God, the woman should've been Thomas's mother, not his sister. Most of the polished oak benches, booths and tables were empty what with most of the crowd's clustering around one of the center tables. Rather intrigued since Thomas was nowhere in sight, he made his way into the crowd, weaving toward the table. He squeezed through the last ring of people to see Thomas sat at the table's other side deadlocked in an arm wrestle. It was the first stereotypically masculine thing he'd ever seen Thomas do. When Thomas was sober he abhorred violence yet when drunk he damn near encouraged it.

Hmm, hypocritical drunk or not, dear God, Thomas was gorgeous. The black curls and pale skin shone with a faint sheen of sweat under the lantern's glow, a shirtsleeve rolled up to show the slim, hard muscled forearm as it strained against the bigger, tanned one. Dark blue eyes were focused on his opponent's, not seeming to notice that his hand was inching closer to the tabletop. Of course, when Thomas refused to blink he was unnervingly reminded of Lucille whom he'd never seen blink, ever. He had to admit that Thomas's intimidation tactic was very effective not only on him, but on the red haired man whose arm faltered leading Thomas to swiftly slam the man's hand down. A moment's silence as the crowd wondered just what'd happened before he let out a hearty cheer. His jubilation led to more cheers, hugging and much slapping of both backs and backsides.

Thomas blinked, peered drunkenly at him, then smiled and exclaimed, "Alan, old thing ! Well, c'mon, be a good chap 'n sit. Harrison this his Alan McMickle who's fickle. Err, McMichael, McMichael, so sorry, darling, but you are rather fickle sometimes."

He couldn't help laughing as he sat between Thomas and Harrison. "I wouldn't worry of it, Thomas, I am merely glad to see you again."

Long lashes fluttered before Thomas leaned in to try to kiss him only to catch his jawline instead. He had never seen Thomas this drunk before, but he knew that Lucille wasn't going to like Thomas's 'sneaking out' and 'straying' from her sight. With a brief head shake he lifted Thomas's head then ignoring the smell of alcohol pressed a chaste kiss to the soft, pale pink lips. It might rather be better if Thomas were the only one drinking tonight. They didn't need themselves run over or Lucille would murder him for letting Thomas get hurt.

Thomas grinned again then broke into his native Cumbrian dialect instead of his adopted and generalized English accent. "Sa good ta see yew too. Luce s-she's gonna be mad's a hatter I tell ya, Alan. Tell 'er I'm surely going out 'n she's gonna claim that I ne'er told her she is."

Of course, he loved Thomas's rougher accent, but was it ever hard to understand. When Thomas was drunk he didn't want to be Sir Thomas Sharpe, Baronet of Harding Poole, merely Thomas Sharpe. Alan agreed simply because that was exactly how Lucille had acted before - when Thomas went out with her it was good, but when Thomas went out to the bar/pub with him it was the worst thing ever. Oh how he despised that woman. If she weren't Thomas's, "Dear, lovely, really, Alan, she is lovely when you're not around, sister." he would've happily never seen her again.

He, Thomas, and Harrison talked for a while before he dragged his lover from the bar...uh, pub. Pub, pub, it was a damn pub, nearly a year or so in England he'd been and he still forgot most days. At least he could use Thomas's drunkenness as an excuse to have the Englishman hold on to him, have Thomas's head laid against his shoulder. Really, he couldn't help thinking how queer they must've looked stumbling through the slush puddles. Himself in his moleskin overcoat and bowler hat whilst Thomas wore a black cotton one and no hat at all. Either Thomas had forgotten his hat or he hadn't brought it in the first place.

Lucille, her black hair pulled into a high bun, clad in a dark sapphire bustle dress waited outside the hotel. The woman's eyes not much lighter than Thomas's in hue, but far icier all the same, gave him a look of immense reproval. "You dragged him from his bed for some inane activity, I presume."

Thomas started saying, "Luci-"

"Silence, Thomas."

Glumly, Thomas fell silent and stumbled to Lucille's side like a very drunken puppy. Once again he felt a disturbing sort of energy as he watched Lucille stroke Thomas's hair briefly hold him to her breast then lead him inside. There was something very much wrong with Lucille, but he again couldn't pinpoint what exactly it was. He just prayed that he never had to find out.


End file.
